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I was informed the funeral was a pleasant affair. A bit small, perhaps, but lovely all the same. Wildflowers had been plucked and placed at the end of each pew. Organ music gave birth to tears of unfathomable mourning. As the coffin was carried from the church, a train of black fabric bowed behind. Whispers of “gone too soon” were shared.
They always are.
Only, this time, the whispers were true.
I didn’t go to the funeral.
I couldn’t.
During the several days following the trial, I lived beneath blinding lights refracted against bleached tiles and gaunt, metal bed frames. The horrid pungency of vomit, coupled with odious disinfectant, forever stained my nostrils. Black thread tore through my day, while measured syringes of morphine punctured my nightmares.
I ran my fingertips over the thin, cotton sheets; starting at one end and stretching upward until I discovered an arm. From there I ventured down again, along the bicep all the way to the wrist and palm. I recalled an instance, very much similar to that moment, where it had been he to first instigate the action.
Now it was I.
I traced the inside of his palm only a few moments before inching toward his forearm. Strange how these things progress. You begin focusing on a course exterior, only to find gratefulness in the oddest of things.
When I had first met him, I was young—foolish even—without the slightest understanding of humanity. The very idea of eternally binding myself to one of the male sex made my blood boil instantly. I was far better on my own; surviving, rather than thriving. A radical, rambunctious adolescent who was willing to fight, but not to remain silent.
He had changed that.
First he began as a teacher, or some derivative thereof, moulding my brain into the sharpest of knives. Philosophy became my steed, and stratagy my chariot. My already staunch collection of books was integrated with the works of Plato and DaVinci. Ideas were shared, improved, and polished. Opinions became questions of morality. The divine had met the mortal.
Then came the day I beat him at chess.
An astounding victory.
We were friends.
Somewhere, either before or after, the idea of a rather unlikely friendship, it was cemented that we were companions; partners of the mind while others of the world pined for partners of the flesh. Barriers were constructed and demolished. Lines were drawn and scrubbed away. In the end, we were two people as alike as we were different. It was certain one revolved around the other, though who fulfilled either position remained unknown. Therefore, we stood at the threshold with terms of our own and an answer neither of us could have expected years before.
I had not realised I was shivering until a nurse carefully pressed a mug of coffee into my hands. The froth on top was not strictly consumable, nor did it improve the sewage-like taste and consistency. But it was hot; therefore, I tried to be thankful. It struck me the woman was somewhere near my own age, though a good deal more like the magazine models than I could ever be. I was aware too that she was speaking, but could not find the heart to respond. So she went away. It really was good of her to make an attempt. As she had for the past four days. A doctor came and went with only chaste words of encouragement about healing bodies and exhaustion. Malnutrition may have been there as well, but I often forgot the moment he too left and abandoned me with the man stretched stiffly beneath the thin sheets.
The sound of his breathing filled the room; drifting between the slow, deepened spurs of unconsciousness and the sharp rasps as he broke to the surface of sleep. Guttural noises and groans were common as well, along with a sharp catch of air near the back of his throat. Following these, he would taunt the idea of awakening, only to sink back into the depths with a hushed sigh.
As he lay on his back, I watched his chest rise and fall. Again his breathing became rapid and his head tipped backward into the pillow. His nostrils flared, his mouth twitched momentarily, and his eyes crinkled slightly at the side. I gripped his hand, as if to transfer the ragged bits of my own energy into his battered body. His breathing changed again, this time stronger than its predecessors. I released his hand, though not without regret, and stood to open the door and call for the nurse.
However, I was called first.
“Lawrence?” His voice was horse and settled deep in his chest.
“Hello, Keane.” His eyes flared open, then closed again at the sudden glare of overhead bulbs. His throat worked once and his eyes opened again.
“I take it you at last made good on your threat.”
“Threat?”
“To dismember my organs.” I did my best not to smile. He really did have a magnificent memory.
“Not yet. I still might. Christ, Keane, why didn’t you tell me you were in so much pain?” His eyes softened tremendously and slid to where my hand rested on the mattress near his.
“There was nothing to be done. When my grandfather died of cancer—”
“Cancer!” I ripped my hand back to restrain the dier urge to slam it across his face. “Keane, your appendix ruptured!” His eyes snapped to mine; jolting from one to the other almost desperately before he dragged the sheet down past his waist. There, along the lower right side of his pale abdomen stretched a line of black stitches. He dropped his head back with a sigh.
“It hurts.”
“They gave you some morphine a few hours ago.”
“How much?”
“Only a little. I checked the dosage before they completed the injection.”
“I can feel the pricks in my arm.”
“That’s the IV.” Keane blinked at me for a moment and gingerly touched his opposite forearm, as though he was not formerly aware of the tubing snaking up from his veins to a transparent bag hanging off the bed. Awe was followed by woe as he turned back to me. “They came to a verdict, did they not?”
“They did, but it fell through on account of your... indisposition. And new evidence.”
“Evidence?”
“Let’s just say Sergeant Crowley came through in the end. You may not be free yet, but there may be a chance the courts will re-examine your case.” Keane smiled, though it was sluggish and required him to close his eyes. His breathing again slowed to a restful pace. I thought he had once more drifted to sleep, but then—
“Did you go to Ross’ Funeral?” He asked heavily.
“No. I heard it was nice, though.”
“Good. A man should always have a good funeral.” He groaned, sinking back into the mattress with a sharp rasp in his chest as each breath slowed a bit more toward that comfortable haven. A few minutes later, he was once more asleep.
––––––––
THE NEXT FEW DAYS WERE a great deal more pleasant than the last. I had asked for a second bed to be brought in for me, as no nurse had the time to sit vigil and attend to Keane’s every discomfort. The IV was eventually removed and replaced with glasses of water and juice left on his bedside table.
These were, to the nurse’s audible appreciation, soon empty.
Fingal made it a point to visit everyday at noon, refusing to leave until Keane painstakingly opened his shirt and revealed the livid, puckered scar forming beneath the black thread.
He was officially released on a Sunday evening.
Fingal was good enough to drive us to the cottage before catching the late train back to London. Mrs. McCarthy opened the door and stepped aside as Keane strode stiffly, but unaided, into the foyer. I assisted only in the removal of his hat and coat, while the housekeeper, God bless her, began her own projects.
“Will you be having something to eat now, Sir, or would you rather be waiting for noon? I could make a nice cup of tea if you’d like to wait?”
“Tea would be much appreciated.”
“Aye, Sir. So it would. The young houseguest is sleeping in the guestroom now, but I can make adjustments if you’d rather not be climbing up and down all those stairs.” Keane assured Mrs. McCarthy she needn’t bother; a quarrel that had been present since the moment of her employment, I was sure. She needn’t bother, but she did all the same. This time; however, my companion was more than adamant.
“I will not have my house rearranged as if I was some invalid. Lawrence, would you mind carrying up the rucksack first? I will be up in a moment.” Debate was not only futile, but infinitely more dangerous than simple compliance, so I quickly tramped up the staircase with the short promise I would return should he need my assistance.
He assured me he would not.
In the end, neither he nor I was entirely correct.
Keane did not specifically need my assistance ascending the wooden obstacle, but I heard no argument to a light touch on his forearm when a sharp hiss abruptly halted his haggard frame. His movements were slower and more cautious than he was wont; however, no feverish glare overrode his features. The stifled curses, on the other hand...
I pulled back the bedclothes as Keane shuffled into the loo and waited for the sound of flowing water to subside before entering. Dressed in only his tweed trousers and cotton vest, he was bent over a sink of steaming water with his face regarding itself critically in the fogged mirror. I smirked.
“Good lord, don’t tell me you are becoming vain.”
“No.” Keane muttered. “Not vain, but I do seem to be turning into quite the barbaric caveman.” He motioned to the thick, grey scruff stretching across his lower face beneath a fresh, fluffy layer of shaving cream.
“It’s called a beard. It is what happens when you don’t shave.”
“Which I intend to remedy at this very moment; however—” He poised the knife-like razor in his hand, but only managed to raise his arm a little past his chest before wincing. I sighed and dragged a wooden chair in from the hall.
“Sit.” Keane cautiously lowered himself onto the hard seat, tilting his head backward until I saw the red and blue veins of his neck through his transparent flesh. I smoothed out the skin along his cheek I was about to shave before pausing thoughtfully. “Any final requests before I begin?” My companion eyed the razor he had relinquished to my hand and grimaced.
“Lawrence, I have never known you to be clumsy with knives, but if you dare make my resting place beneath English soil, I will not be the only one found dead.” I grinned briefly, strategically adjusted the angle of the razor against Keane’s face, and gingerly scraped long strokes against his skin. The short hairs fell away easily as I swished the sharp tool through the sink water; however, the more scruff I managed to remove from my companion’s cheeks, the more I realised the extent to which he had become both horrifically gaunt and unnaturally pale.
Had he retained the deathly grey tinge acquired in the jail cell, he would already look dead.
“Carefull, Lawrence!” I jerked my armed hand back from Keane’s face, but the damage had already been done as a slight cut appeared red at his jaw. It was perhaps half an inch, but it pulled me back to earth with a vengeance. Every stroke following was done with the utmost caution; leaving Keane with no other unexpected injuries when I stepped away and allowed himself to study my work in the mirror.
“It could be worse.” A thin finger hesitantly touched the small line of injured flesh at his jaw. “No doubt I looked a great deal more gruesome on my first attempt.” I sincerely believed this to be a line made out of kindness, rather than strict truth, but I accepted it with a quick nod and glance at his clothes.
“I laid a pair of pyjamas on the bed. Shout if you need help.”
“It will not be necessary.”
“Good, then you won’t object if I bring up the tea?”
“Certainly not.” Keane scoffed. “It would be most welcome, as long as that is all you bring into this room. Eating still holds little appeal at the moment.” I sighed and turned toward the bedroom door.
“I will see if I can possibly dissuade Mrs. McCarthy. But it won’t be easy.”
“It never is.”
––––––––
I WAS AWARE OF EACH and every movement in the bed that night, as though a breath timed poorly in the darkness might start Keane haemorrhaging on the sheets. The cigarettes on his nightstand had been tucked away, with a bottle of prescribed painkillers and glass of water standing watch in their place. An accursed storm smashed at the windows, dragging any hope of sleep away as well; therefore, I laid awake to listen to the gentle return to my companion’s breathing. It was not quite so deep as before, but soon believed that it had nothing to do with the four inch incision in his lower stomach. I cautiously rolled onto my side and eyed Keane’s enshadowed figure. He lay on his back with both hands loosely clasped over his ribcage. His eyes were closed and his lips had parted slightly as he released gentle puffs of breath. Twice I noticed a hand flitting to his roaring stomach; hovering for a few seconds before returning to his chest. At the third repetition; however, I threw back my half of the duvet and stole Keane’s dressing gown from the bedpost.
The feigned slumber instantly fell away.
“Lawrence?”
“I am going down to the kitchen to make you some toast—yes, I do know how to make toast—and you are going to at least try to eat it or, so help me, a ruptured appendix will be nothing compared to my temperament tomorrow.”
Even through the cottage's darkness, my stride was sure. It was as though I had never left. I only bothered with the lights when I was in the kitchen and had secured the bread-box beneath one arm. There were few dishes Mrs. McCarthy allowed me to attempt, and an infinity to which I was explicitly forbidden.
Toast was, thankfully, categorised under the former.
I managed to scrounge together three pieces of only mildly scorched bread—a fourth lost, having been burnt beyond all recognition—and placed them onto a wooden tray. I had instinctively reached for the butter and marmalade; however, I left them in favour of simplicity. Perhaps in a day or so Keane might be eating something more substantial, but small steps were best as a beginning.
A few minutes later I was pushing open the bedroom door with my foot to discover my companion propped up in the bed with Deen standing near the corner. What appeared to be an intellectual discussion dropped like stones the moment I entered and began settling the legs of the wooden tray on opposite sides of Keane’s lap.
“Thank you, Lawrence. Tapadh leat.” I nodded absently and stepped toward the door.
“Would you like me to wait outside for a bit while you two talk, or—” A dry triangle of toast was waved in the air.
“There’s no reason for you to go. Alessandro was about to go back to bed.” He turned to the boy and muttered something quick and incomprehensible before nodding to hall. Once the boy was gone, I closed the door behind him; leaning against the wooden polish.
“Alessandro?” Keane glanced up from his tray.
“His name.”
“Oh. That doesn’t sound Scottish. Besides, the paper in his pocket—”
“Was a scrap of a travel brochure from before the war.” My companion lifted the very paper in question and flattened it beside the plate of toast. “I suspect deen is the tail end of a city name. Or the travel company. Really, Lawrence, I would hardly think you would bow to such flimsy evidence.”
“Some of us can’t speak Gaelic.” I retorted; wandering around to the other side of the bed before throwing my body across the mattress. Keane winced slightly at the jolt, but all he earned from me was an apology muffled beneath a pillow. I lay there silently as my companion worked mechanically through triangles of ashen toast. The blackest of edges were diplomatically avoided as he separated the edible from disastrous. If it hadn’t been for the only slightly darkened middles, they might have remained entirely untouched.
I reached an arm to my nightstand, rummaged around the drawer, and placed the thin object next to the plate on Keane’s tray. He brushed crumbs off his hands before snatching the photograph between his fingers.
“It was on some film found in Deen—Alessandro’s—pocket. It was the only one that survived exposure.”
“Do you know what it is?” I shrugged against the sheets.
“Some bomb or missile, I should imagine. Seems all the world is trying to collect them.”
“Indeed.” Keane turned the photograph at another angle beneath the light and squinted down at the colourless variations. “Lawrence, would you fetch me my spectacles? I believe they are in my suit pocket.” I slipped to the floor and began rifling through his tweed jacket.
“The spectacles you rarely need, you mean? Half the time I honestly believe they are just for show.” My companion scrubbed at his closed eyelids before propping the metal frame on his nose. Even then, he was turning and scrunching his eyes the same as before.
“I may very well need them now. I seemed to have aged a decade in less than a month.”
“If that’s the case, so have I. I can’t make out that white text. Is that an ‘r’ or a ‘t’? This symbol looks like the number six. Really, Keane, whoever was holding the camera was either half drunk, or...Keane?” I looked up at my companion when he did not answer, and did my best to hide the first smile in infinite days of darkness. His head was tipped to one side, eyes closed, with the jaw slackened slightly; allowing the lightest of breaths to rise from his chest and settle gently into the air. I removed the wire spectacles from his nose, silently lowering his torso until he was sprawled flat across the mattress. All complaints of a sore spine and neck avoided, I tucked the blurred photograph into my nightstand drawer, slipped beneath the duvet, and slept.
Honestly, truly slept.